


what baking can do

by pdameron



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - The Great British Bake Off Fusion, Jewish John Silver, Multi, background MaxAnne, established Flinthamiltons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-24 04:20:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17697554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pdameron/pseuds/pdameron
Summary: Silver had thought Madi was joking when she told him she’d filled out a Bake Off application on his behalf. He’d laughed into the phone, and then simply asked her how her mother was doing.That had been the end of it, Silver had thought, until he’d gotten a phone call from some producer congratulating him for being accepted onto the Great British Bake Off.-the GBBO au that no one asked for





	1. Week One: Cakes

**Author's Note:**

> i don't think you need to have seen the great british bake off to read this fic but who knows
> 
> flint is paul hollywood but much better because paul hollywood is a twat

Silver had thought Madi was joking when she told him she’d filled out a Bake Off application on his behalf. He’d laughed into the phone (she’d been in Johannesburg at the time), and then simply asked her how her mother was doing.

That had been the end of it, Silver had thought, until he’d gotten a phone call from some producer congratulating him for being accepted onto the Great British Bake Off. 

And so here he is, three months later, standing behind some massive tent in the English countryside with nine other amateur bakers, all of whom seem more excited - and more nervous, for that matter - than he is. 

There’s Idelle, with whom Silver immediately gets on, sharp as a whip and just as sarcastic and cynical as him. She married rich, she says happily, and so stopped working a few years ago. She doesn’t say what her profession  _ was _ , just that she hated it and was glad to leave.

Augustus Featherstone, who understandably goes by his last name, is a friendly, portly sort of fellow - Silver thinks he said he was a  _ mayor _ , of all things, though for which town he can’t recall - and follows Idelle around like a lost duckling. Silver would personally find it annoying, but Idelle seems to think he’s rather sweet. 

Eme, a warm if somber woman from Zimbabwe, is an ambassador for some sort of youth program, and actually knows a former contestant, the infamous Eleanor Guthrie from series one. Silver’s positive Madi’s mentioned an Eme before, but he doesn’t want to ask in case he’s wrong. Furthermore, Silver’s doesn’t know what if anything Madi had told her coworkers about their relationship (or breakup), and he’s not sure he wants to find out if his hunch does turn out to be right.

Joshua, who moved to England from South Africa ten years ago for university, is loud and boisterous, and already Silver can tell he’ll be a delightful headache in the tent. He’s fairly certain he said he’s a rugby coach for his old uni, which seems like a good fit: Silver can certainly imagine him yelling at players from the side of the pitch. 

Joji works as a  _ stuntman _ down at Pinewood studios in London, which Silver thinks is easily the coolest thing he’s ever heard. Silver’s aching to ask him about the film’s he’s worked on, and the sword collection he’d mentioned earlier, but Joji seems a rather private, reserved sort of man, and so he restrains himself to just looking up the man’s IMDB page on his phone.

Muldoon, a carpenter, has built his own displays for the cakes he’ll bake, which seems both a bit over the top and extremely intimidating to Silver, who’s come with nothing but the ingredients he needs. Still, Muldoon seems friendly, if slightly overeager.

Logan is fucking annoying. All he does is talk about how his gift of baking won over Charlotte, his fiance. Silver doesn’t even care what he does for a living. He just wants the man to stop talking about fucking Charlotte for two minutes.

Billy and Gates have seemed, from the beginning, like two peas in a pod. Silver had honestly thought they were father and son when he first met the pair of them; Billy the journalist and his retired sailor Dad, a familial baking duo. No, it turns out: they just hit it off, happened to be on same the train down to the filming location. He likes the pair of them well enough, though Billy seemed unimpressed when Silver admitted he’d never  _ actually _ wanted to be on the show, just been hoodwinked into it.

“Jesus Christ,” Idelle mutters to him when Billy jogs over to help a cameraman lift some heavy equipment off a truck, biceps bulging. “Get a load of that one.”

Silver nods, equally distracted as he ogles Billy’s arms. “Let’s hope he stays on for at least a few episodes. For the sake of morale.”

“I think the British public has a right to stare at those arms,” Abigail pipes up from Silver’s left, and they all dissolve into giggles.

Abigail is the youngest baker, in her first year studying literature at university. As soon as he’d mentioned he was a writer, she’d latched onto him like a limpet, peppering him with questions nonstop. She’s awfully adorable; Silver kind of wants to stick her in his pocket and take her home with him. 

They’re ushered into the large tent after what feels like an age, and though he himself isn’t a huge fan of the program, he can’t blame the others for their thrilled gasps and titters: it’s massive, wonderfully decorated, and somehow quite homey. There are ten workstations, each equipped with an oven and a proving drawer, as well as large amounts of counter space for what will undoubtedly be a boatload of work. Silver’s put at the back, which he’s secretly grateful for: surely the cameras and hosts will pay more attention to the people up front?

A hush falls over the room as Jack Rackham and Anne Bonny, longtime hosts of the Great British Bake Off, walk into the room. 

“We’re just here to introduce ourselves before the cameras are all set up,” Jack says, smiling broadly as Anne sort of sulks next to him. Silver’s always been convinced that the producers only wanted Jack for the hosting gig, but that the man refused to take it unless Anne came along. Silver can’t believe it actually works, his effervescent loquaciousness and her dry, sometimes rude interjections.

They get to him last, the pair of them reaching over and shaking both his hands at once. 

“John, is it?” Jack asks, smiling politely. 

“You can just call me Silver, everyone does,” he replies. He’s nervous, suddenly, whereas before he’d felt rather calm about this whole thing.

“You know, your application said you were a writer, but I confess when I looked you up I couldn’t find even one of your works.”

“Oh,” Silver says, surprised that Jack had bothered to look up any of the contestants, let alone him. “I use a pen name.”

“Would we know your alter ego?” Jack looks far too intrigued for Silver’s liking. 

“Uh - I think Flint tweeted about one of my books once?” Silver replies, and then immediately wants to kick himself, because  _ why would he say that?  _

“Really?” Anne asks, and, despite himself, Silver nods.

“Flint tweets almost exclusively about books, and I’m almost certain one of his partners runs his account. That doesn’t narrow things down in the slightest,” Jack pouts. He actually pouts. It shouldn’t be so endearing, what with the ridiculous facial hair, but it is. 

Silver shrugs, grinning. “Can’t give away the game too easily, can I?”

Anne and Jack both narrow their eyes, eerily in sync. 

“Challenge fucking accepted, John Silver,” Anne says, and before Silver can insist that  _ it really wasn’t a challenge, honestly,  _ they’re called away for some last minute makeup touches. 

Silver’s left to prepare his ingredients for their first challenge, a torte cake of their choice. Now that there are no celebrity hosts unintentionally (at least on Jack’s part) intimidating him, the nerves have faded.

It’s only baking, after all.

 

 

*****

 

 

Flint is absolutely dreading walking into that tent. He’d complained on the phone with Thomas the whole train ride to the filming site, whinging about the make-up and the haircuts and the over-eager PAs (there is always,  _ always _ at least one new production assistant who tries to sleep with him) and all the promotional work he’ll have to do in the coming months. 

Thomas had been mostly sympathetic, though he’d clearly been enjoying himself.  _ “Just make sure your on-set hairdresser leaves enough for me to tug on, darling.” _

Flint had blushed scarlet in the middle of the train. He’s sure someone got a shot of his face on their phone. That’s the issue with being a sort-of famous television personality in this modern age. Everyone’s a paparazzo, eager to post a picture of James Flint to their instagram or twitter: Flint grocery shopping with Thomas; Flint and Miranda walking the dog; Flint, asleep on an airplane; and now, probably, Flint pink-cheeked on the fucking train.

Anne had picked him up from the station, which he’d appreciated greatly until he’d told her about Thomas’s hair-pulling remark and she’d laughed so hard she’d had to pull over. 

Now he’s sat in a makeup chair, forced to listen as the artists argue over whether or not they’re willing to sacrifice his freckles in their attempts to even out his slight sunburn. 

“People just love your freckles,” One of them says, as though Flint doesn’t have a couple at home who comment on them  _ all the time _ . He’d once woken to the feel of a felt-tip pen drawing constellations out of the marks on his shoulders.

Before he can politely demand they just  _ make a decision so he can get out of this chair _ , Max wanders over, smiling apologetically and insisting she simply has to steal Flint for a moment or ten. 

“I love you,” He declares, quite earnestly, and Max just laughs.

“And I you. How unfortunate that we are both rampant homosexuals and cannot properly consummate our love.”

She leads him to their own separate little tent, where the two of them deliberate their judging decisions. It also serves as a sort of hangout area, where he and Max can spend time together while they’re waiting for the bakers to finish their technical challenges.

“Why do you never have to get poked and prodded like that?  Why is it only me, Jack, and Anne?”

“I would not trust anyone but myself to apply my makeup. And besides, if you were really as mean as you pretend to be, you would be done in five minutes. That’s what Anne does.” She hands him a manila folder, grabbing one for herself. He’s of course read through the bakers’ applications, but she’s right to want them to refresh their memories: the top sheet has the name  _ Logan _ at the top, someone who Flint had apparently already forgotten.

“Forgive me for not wanting to frighten the poor makeup girls. They’re just doing their jobs, annoying as those jobs are,” he replies, scanning through Logan’s application. There’s a lot of mention of someone called Charlotte. God, Flint hopes he doesn’t sound like this when he talks about Thomas.

“Yes, we all know you simply  _ look _ frightening. You’d never terrorize any crew member, or baker. Not really.”

“I have killed people, you know,” he says lowly, trying to remind her that he was once in fact very frightening in his own right. He’s mostly retired from being frightening now, though he can’t help his resting bitch face, as Miranda calls it.

Max hums, not bothering to look up as she peruses her own papers. “Be grateful they haven’t given you your mic yet,  _ cherie _ .”

Flint rolls his eyes. Like he’d be stupid enough to mention that anywhere other than the safety of their own, currently camera-less tent.

“When do the bakers get here, anyway?” He asks, anxious to get started and get this over with.

“It won’t matter when they get here if Jack doesn’t show up soon,” She says, still multitasking. “Is it really fair that we have a mayor here? Shouldn’t he be doing a charity, publicity style bake off?” 

“If he were the mayor of London, maybe. I’m pretty sure his town has less than two thousand people,” Flint replies, before setting his own files aside. “You know, speaking of Anne…”

“We are not doing this, Flint,” Max says, glancing up at him sharply. “She is not ready.”

“Not ready? She doesn’t even know you’re interested!”

“She would not wish to put her relationship with Jack at risk,” Max says, sounding terribly forlorn. 

“What relationship? They haven’t fucked in years, you know that. Just because they live together - ”

“Jack has been the most important person in her life since they were children. You and I both know she would never to anything to jeopardize that. Please, my friend, drop it.”

Flint sighs, and reluctantly changes the subject. “So, did you get a chance to read the new Solomon Little book?”

Max practically chucks her files aside in her excitement. “I could not put it down! What a way with words that man has.”

They manage to get in a good half-hour of book-talk, exchanging theories and debating character choices, until a PA comes to fetch them.

The contestants, when Flint and Max are finally led into the large baking tent, seem a good bunch. They’re always so excited, so nervous on the first day, and thought Flint would never admit it to anyone he finds that terribly endearing. 

Jack gives a variation on his usual ‘Welcome to the Bake Off’ speech, announces the first challenge - a layered torte cake - and then Anne sets them off. There’s a strange sort of satisfaction in watching all ten bakers burst into a flurry of activity, especially when Flint sees that many of them have already begun to form tentative friendships, chatting away with each other and the camera crews as they start to sift together their dry mixtures.

Then it’s time for the judges to make their way to each of the bakers individually, asking this and that about their bakes. It’s all pretty standard: Jack leads the way, making jokes here and there while Max and Flint ask all the relevant questions.

Flint immediately likes Hal Gates, the pair of them bonding over a shared love of sailing, and Max, predictably, takes a liking to Idelle, undoubtedly responding to her quick wit and the winks she sends her way. Logan is unbearable, and within seconds of speaking with him Flint is eager to move on to the next baker. Charlotte this, Charlotte that; it takes a good five minutes for Jack to get the man to even mention what he’s baking. 

It takes a while, but at last they make it to the two bakers in the last row. They approach the man first, who must, by process of elimination, be John Silver. 

He’s got his mess of long curls tied up in a bun at the top of his head (which immediately makes Flint miss the little ponytail he’d managed to grow during the break, damn the set hairdressers), and cocoa powder smeared across one of his cheekbones. His hands, Flint realizes when he glances down to see what he’s making, are quite broad and thick, and - well, Flint stops that train of thought before it can get any further.

Flint barely registers most of the initial conversation with Silver, too distracted by the mole under his eye and the sharpness of his smile and the loose curl that’s fallen across his forehead.

“And why this particular cake, John?” Jack asks, in full-on Host Mode.

“It’s something I used to make with my Nonna, when I was a boy. She’d lift me up and let me watch as she mixed everything together, let me crack the eggs and then pick up all the bits of shells that got in.”

Flint smiles.  _ This _ is why he loves baking. The way it brings people together, the way a whiff of vanilla extract can bring back the fondest sort of memories, the way it keeps the right kind of traditions alive. Every time Flint kneads a loaf of bread, he thinks of mimicking his grandfather at their kitchen table in Cornwall, just him and his Pop making their weekly loaf of rye. 

“Really?”

“No, I just found the recipe online and thought it seemed good. But the Nonna story is nicer, don’t you think?” Silver replies, and while Max and Jack laugh, Flint frowns, irritated.

“Shall we expect a lie every time we speak with you, then?” He asks, a bit harsh. 

Silver blinks, clearly taken aback.  _ Christ _ , his eyes are blue. “I - no?”

Jack intercedes, undoubtedly trying to save them from having to do another take. “Oh, don’t mind Flint. He takes his baking horrifically seriously.”

“...right.” Silver says after a moment, eyeing Flint warily. “But don’t you think - no, nevermind.”

Silver turns back to his raspberry compote, stirring half-heartedly. Well, now Flint  _ has _ to know what he was going to say.

“What?” He fairly barks, and Max elbows him pointedly.

Silver taps the spoon against the pot for a moment, before he clearly decides to just go for it. “It’s just - don’t you think that’s rather missing the point of baking? Taking everything so seriously? I mean, what’s the point of a cake if you’re not having a good time while you’re making it? Or eating it, for that matter? Surely it’s better to have a laugh along the way than glare your batter into submission.”

Flint bristles at that. “Perhaps, but when you’re a part of a  _ competition _ , trying to prove yourself not only to two experts but to the nation as a whole, a bit of seriousness is expected.”

Silver shrugs. 

He  _ shrugs _ , and Jack’s laughing, but Max is looking over at Flint like she’s bracing for the worst.

Flint could swear he can actually  _ feel _ his blood pressure rising. He opens his mouth to respond scathingly, but Max is already shoving him on to the next baker. 

“We won’t keep you, John. Best of luck.”

“I hate him,” Flint mutters to her, positive they’ll cut out that particular bit of audio from his mic when it comes time to edit. 

“You most certainly do not,” Max hisses back, before pasting on a grin as they approach Abigail’s station.

She blushes and titters adorably when Max compliments her dress, and Flint already likes her enormously. They’re about halfway through discussing her seven-layered vanilla and hazelnut  torte, when Flint has his epiphany.

“Abigail Ashe? As in  _ Peter Ashe?” _

Abigail freezes, pausing mid-stir. “You knew my father?”

Flint tries to keep his face neutral. The last time he’d seen Peter, about five years before the man had died, he’d broken his nose. Peter had outed him and Thomas to Lord Hamilton, as well as to Flint’s then-superiors in the Navy. Thomas had been disowned, and Flint had been asked to resign his post. 

The only person that Flint has ever hated more than Peter Ashe is Alfred Hamilton. 

And maybe now John Silver.

“Yes,” is all Flint can manage.

Abigail makes a face. “Well, I hope you won’t hold that against me.”

The laugh is startled out of Flint, and she smiles, clearly relieved. 

“I think we’ll be fine,” he replies. “Now tell me about your icing.”

 

 

*****

 

 

Silver almost wants to laugh when Flint tries his torte cake: the man so clearly wants to have something negative to say, but the most he can say is that the mirror glaze isn’t as shiny as it could have been. He does so enjoy making things difficult for people, when he can.

He does laugh - as does the rest of the tent - when Flint tries Logan’s cake and promptly spits it out, horrified. Max is more delicate about it, but she too doesn’t swallow, grabbing a napkin instead. 

“I think, my dear, that you may have confused your salt with your sugar,” Max says once the room has quieted down a bit, which only sets them all off again, until even Logan is chuckling. 

Abigail’s cake turns out to be the star of the round, to everyone’s delight. Flint even shakes her hand. 

Going into the technical challenge, however, is enough to make even Silver a tad nervous. There are three challenges every weekend: one signature, one technical, and one showstopper. The signature and showstopper they’re allowed to practice throughout the week, but the bakers go into the technical blind: they’ll only have their ingredients and an extremely pared down recipe from one of the judges to go off. 

When their told they’ll have to make a Simnel cake, Silver wants to slam his head on the counter. He doesn’t even know what that  _ is _ . Joshua and Logan seem a bit lost too, but he doesn’t exactly want to be in the same boat as  _ Logan _ .

He looks through the recipe, grimacing when he realizes it’s a fruit cake. 

“This must be a Christmas kind of cake, no?” He asks Abigail, who’s already begun chopping her candied fruits. 

“Easter, actually. Have you really never had one?” 

“I’m a Jew, darling,” he retorts, making her snort in a most-unladylike way. 

“They sell them at Waitrose!” Idelle pipes up. “They’ve got the weird marzipan balls on them.”

Silver still doesn’t know what these cakes are, but he appreciates that they’re trying. He muddles his way through the recipe, rolling his eyes at the extremely sparse instructions. A few of the bakers have never made marzipan before, which has its set of pitfalls on its own. Silver hates marzipan, but Madi had loved it, and so he’s at least confident on that front. 

There’s a bit of drama when Billy burns his first attempt, the cake coming out looking more like a giant black spot than anything edible, and has to remake his batter in what little time is left. Logan complains the entire time, and it’s only when Abigail, of all people, tells him he’s ruining the mood that he shuts the hell up. 

They’re all sweating and harried when Anne calls time, and Silver’s pleased to note that his Simnel cake looks quite a lot like the rest of them, despite the fact that he’s never seen one. 

The judging is blind, and so when the judges taste his cake and Flint says it’s a “decent attempt,” Silver tries not to look too pleased with himself. He places fourth overall, which isn’t bad at all if you ask him, and Idelle grabs him by the face and kisses his cheek in celebration when she wins. 

 

 

******

 

 

By the time Flint gets back to his hotel room for the night, he’s dead on his feet. He’s eaten so much fucking cake, and he’ll have to eat  _ more _ cake tomorrow, and why does he do this again?

His phone goes off, and he smiles at the sight of Thomas’s name. 

“Hey.”

_ “Hello, darling. Just wanted to see how the first day of filming went,”  _ Thomas is smiling; Flint can hear it in his voice. 

_ “Yes! Tell us about the bakers! I can’t wait until September to watch!” _ Miranda’s obsession with the Bake Off would be flattering if it had anything to do with one of her partners being a judge. It’s not: she just likes the show.

Flint just groans, flopping onto his bed and burying his face in his pillow.

_ “That bad?”  _

“Why do I put myself through this?” He grumbles, and Miranda laughs.

Miranda laughs.  _ “Because you’re a sap who loves watching people grow. You love baking, and you love people who love baking.” _

Flint rolls onto his back. “Abigail Ashe is a contestant. I didn’t make the connection until she was standing in front of me looking like a carbon copy of her mother.”

_ “Holy shit,”  _ Miranda quietly as Thomas makes a faintly alarmed sound.

“She’s sweet. Doesn’t seem like she was particularly fond of Peter. She won the technical challenge.”

_ “I suppose we can’t judge her for having Peter as a father. It’s not like she had a say in the matter, after all.” _ Thomas adds, no doubt thinking of his own shithead father.  _ “Now, tell us about the other contestants.” _

Flint goes over the rest of the bakers, trying to remember the silly little details that might not make it onto telly. When he makes it to Silver, though, his earlier frustration comes back full force.

“He’s a nightmare. Smug as anything. Doesn’t give a flying fuck about baking. Just in it for shits and giggles. Did I tell you he didn’t even  _ want _ to be on the show? Someone filled out his application _ for him. _ ”

“ _ Yes, you did mention,” _ Miranda says, sounding mildly amused. She always enjoys it when he gets riled up.

“How he managed to get third in the technical, I’ll never know. I’m sure it was just a fluke. What an absolute shit, honestly. If he sticks around much longer it’ll do my head in, I’m certain - ”

_ “Is he terribly attractive, then?”  _ Thomas pipes up.

“God yes, it’s so irritating - wait, what?” Flint stops mid-tirade as Thomas’s question - and his own instinctive response - register.

_ “James, darling, when it comes to things like this you are entirely predictable. Did you not think Thomas was a pompous ass when you first met him?”  _

“That’s completely different,” Flint insists, his cheeks redder now than they were even on the train. “Silver’s not - he’s so - ”

_ “Handsome? Pretty? Cute?” _

“Annoying,” Flint finishes pointedly. 

_ “Of course,”  _ Thomas responds, sounding smug.

“I don’t like him! He’s not even all that - it’s the hair, is all.”

_ “Whatever you say, dear.” _

 


	2. Week Two: Biscuits

 

It was a huge relief to Silver, learning that he in fact wouldn’t be going home last week. An even bigger relief was discovering that Logan would be leaving, and that he wouldn’t have to suffer through anymore one-sided conversations about Charlotte. 

They’re all a bit more confident walking into the tent for biscuit week: they know the score now, know what to expect in many ways. The fact that Abigail practically flings herself at every contestant as they arrive, thrilled to see every one of them, is also a help.

Idelle’s stationed behind him this week. It’s nice in that Silver enjoys chatting with her in their downtime, and hugely irritating in that she wolf-whistles every time he bends over to check his oven.

They’re hanging around, waiting for Jack and Anne to come in and set their first challenge. This is the worst part, as they’ve all been practicing this ‘signature challenge’ all week, and know exactly what’s ahead of them, but they need to wait for the hosts to tell the viewers (hypothetical ones, as no one will see this until it airs in September) what they’re doing. 

“Do you know, Idelle,” he says, sitting on her worktop and leaning back on his elbows. “I think the public is really going to hate me.”

He says it casually, as if it’s a joke, but it is a genuine concern of his. It’s easier to tailor his behavior to what people want when he can  _ see _ those people.

Idelle snorts. “In that crop top? I don’t think so.”

She pokes his exposed abs just to prove her point, and he flinches. Her eyes widen, and he realizes too late that he’s exposed himself. 

“Why,  _ John _ . Are you perhaps _ ticklish?” _

“...No?”

 

 

*****

 

 

Flint walks into the tent to see Silver in the midst of an intense giggle-fit, spurred on by Idelle’s relentless tickling. The camera crew, production assistants, and the rest of the bakers, even the ever-solemn Joji, are all laughing at his expense. All in all, Flint supposes it’s not a terrible way to start the weekend, even if fucking  _ Silver _ is the cause of everyone’s good mood.

Flint himself is too distracted by the way Silver’s curls dance as he laughs - not yet in the practical bun he normally wears when baking - to join in on the merriment.

The production manager calls for everyone to get to their stations, and it’s only once Silver has jumped off Idelle’s countertop and moves to his own that Flint realizes he’s  _ wearing a fucking crop top _ , the light blue tank showing off his tanned, well-defined midriff. Not to mention his lightly toned biceps.

_ “ _ Jesus _ fucking  _ Christ _ ,” _ Flint mutters under his breath, and Max elbows him with a teasing smirk.

“Are you going to have trouble focusing on the biscuits,  _ mon ami? _ ”

“Fuck off,” Flint says without heat, and Max fairly cackles.

“And he’s in front! We’ll have a perfect view, all weekend.”

Flint then remembers the bakers have been told to send their clothes out for a wash overnight for continuity purposes. Which means he’ll have to go through _two_ _days_ of John Silver in a crop top.

“ _ Fuck _ ,” he repeats, with feeling, and this time Max swats him on the arm.

“Stop swearing, we’re a family show.”

“Someone needs to tell that to Silver, then,” Flint retorts, trying not to stare too overtly at Silver as he pulls on his apron. Christ, he has dimples on his lower back.  _ Dimples _ . 

Jack saves Flint from having to listen to Max’s response, as he claps his hands and calls for the bakers’ attention. 

“All right bakers, for your signature challenge, the judges would like to see from you twelve, perfectly crisp biscotti. You can use any flavors you like, but they must have some sort of decoration.”

“On your marks, get set, bake!” Anne calls, and the room bursts into a flurry of motion, all the bakers rushing to get their ingredients in order and their batter made. 

“Shall we start on the other side of the room, to give you some time to recover?” 

Flint glares at Max. “If you don’t stop teasing me, I’ll tell Anne about that time you broke a teacup when you saw her in a suit.”

She narrows her eyes. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Anne’s doing the rounds with them this time, and she, ever indifferent to Flint and Max’s bickering, grabs Max by the arm and drags her over to where Abigail is chopping pistachios.

It takes them about half an hour to make it over to Silver’s station. Flint’s still not convinced about Featherstone’s cherry and parmesan flavor combinations, and Max is thrilled to try Idelle’s chocolate and chili biscotti.

“Hello, John,” Max says, sidling over to Silver’s station with a fond smile. Why she likes the man so much, Flint cannot fathom. “What have you got for us today?”

“And maybe explain the outfit,” Anne chimes in, gesturing to his crop top, thankfully covered by his apron.

“What, can’t a guy express himself?”

“With a blue crop top?”

“Maybe I was feeling sad  _ and _ flirty this morning.” 

“Were you?” Flint asks.

Silver snorts. “No. I just like this shirt.”

“As do I, John, but I’d still like to hear about your biscotti,” Max chimes in. 

Silver, it turns out, is making vanilla and lemon-flavored biscotti, with a sweet lemon glaze across the top. They sound heavenly, though Flint would never admit that. Not that he needs to worry, as Max admits to it for him.

“Our Flint just loves all things lemon. Don’t you, cheri?” Max asks, turning to him with a smug smile. To the cameras, it probably just looks fond, like she knows her dear friend Flint all too well. Flint knows better.

“Does he? That would explain the sour faces he’s always making in my direction.” Silver says with a cheeky grin, and Flint scowls, ears turning slightly red at being caught out.

“Best of luck, John,” he says, walking away without another word. He can hear Max and Silver chuckling at his expense. Those fuckers.

 

 

*****

 

 

They’re all waiting for their biscuits to bake during the technical challenge (and really, what the fuck is a  _ Berner Honiglebkuchen _ anyway?) when Jack comes to pester Silver.

“Making your royal icing?” Jack asks, peering over Silver’s shoulder as he mixes his confectioner’s sugar, eggs, and vanilla together.

“Apparently we have to draw a bear onto our biscuits. Not sure how I feel about that,” Silver responds distractedly. The consistency is almost there, but not quite what he wants.

“Now, I don’t know if our viewers are aware of this, but John here is a writer. The thing is, he won’t tell us what his pen name is.”

Silver rolls his eyes as he starts putting his icing into piping bags. He hates this sort of fiddly thing, but he supposes this is what he (or Madi, really) signed up for. “You can’t use the audience to guilt me. That’s cheating.”

“Is it? Or is it just fiendishly clever of me?”

Idelle, from behind them, flicks a glob of icing into Jack’s carefully coiffed hair, making him squawk. “It’s definitely cheating.”

As the technical challenges speeds toward its tense finish (Silver can practically hear the dramatic music they always add in post-production), it becomes suddenly clear that Abigail might not be able to complete all her icing on time. She’d had to restart about halfway through, for reasons that Silver had been frankly too busy to pay much mind to.

But she’s near tears as she frantically tries to finish, and he just can’t bear the sight of her crying. He rushes over to Abigail’s station, looking down at what she has done: all her bears are outlined, but she still hasn’t filled them in. Silver grabs a piping bag without a second thought and gets to work. 

Abigail sniffles a bit, sending him a watery smile. “Are you allowed to do this?”

Silver shrugs. “No one’s yelling at me, are they?”

She turns back to the rest of her cookies; with five minutes left, the two of them should just manage. “I can’t believe I’m crying over a traditional Swiss bear cookie.”

“If it’s any consolation, I can’t believe there’s such a  _ thing _ as a traditional Swiss bear cookie.”

 

 

*****

 

 

“Admit it,” Max says, “You like him.”

“I do  _ not _ like him. I just - don’t hate him.”

“Jack told you what he did for Abigail, and now you are all soft and gooey.”

“He was nice to a seventeen year old. That’s hardly…” Flint pauses, giving her a baffled look. “‘Gooey?’”

That's not exactly part of Max's day to day vernacular.

Max shrugs. “It’s possible I’ve been spending too much time with Idelle.”

Flint sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. It’s true that his estimation of Silver had gone up after Jack had brought up his little rescue during the technical yesterday, but he still finds the man unbearably irritating. “One good deed does not make up for an entire existence devoted to irking me.”

Max just chuckles, giving him a knowing, amused look. “Perhaps you are just sexually frustrated, thanks to his fashion choices this weekend?”

“I’m not sexually frustrated,” Flint insists. “Thomas and I had perfectly good phone sex just last night.”

It is, of course, as he says this that one of the new PAs walks in - Ben, Flint thinks his name might be? He’s fairly certain he’s Scottish - his face turning bright red as he hears the tail-end of Flint’s sentence.

“I - sorry to interrupt, Mr. Flint, Ms. Max, but you’ve been called to set?” 

He doesn’t sound too sure about that, but he’s probably just traumatized after accidentally hearing Flint talk about his sex life.

The bakers seem more stressed than usual when they walk in, though perhaps they’re just anticipating the enormous task ahead of them: a biscuit scenescape, using at least two kinds of cookies. They have four hours to get it all done.

Anne and Jack set the challenge, and Featherstone immediately drops all his flour on the floor in a puff of white. Silver and Idelle both end up laughing so hard they lose five minutes of work time.

Abigail is recreating a scene from  _ Pride and Prejudice _ , and Flint wishes he could crown her star baker of the week immediately. He doesn’t let her tell them which scene, though, as he wants to be surprised. Anne calls him a nerd, and they move on to ask Joshua about his gingerbread rugby pitch and Muldoon about his shortbread Noah’s Arc.

Silver, they learn, is making a gingerbread pirate ship, with a peg-legged captain, a mermaid, and a kraken.

“I considered making Flint the captain, or maybe Max the mermaid, but I didn’t want to be a kiss-ass,” Silver says to the camera just as they arrive at his station. He flushes pink when he realizes the three of them have caught him admitting to it. Flint absolutely does not find this charming.

“I think Flint would make a very good pirate captain,” Max says. “We’ll just have to find him a sword, and maybe get rid of the sweaters.”

Flint goes to defend his clothing - Miranda got him this sweater vest, thank you very much - but Silver beats him to it. “I like the sweaters. They suit him.”

Silver gives Flint a small smile, and returns to rolling out his dough. 

Flint - Flint doesn’t know where to begin with that, so he just wishes Silver luck and moves on before the cameras can catch the blush that’s surely forming on his cheeks. Silver can’t flit from sarcastic and biting to sweet and earnest like this; it’s horribly confusing.

Then Featherstone tells them he’s creating an  _ office scene _ out of  _ oatmeal raisin biscuits _ , of all things, and Flint is distracted from the curl of Silver’s mouth while he questions the man’s sanity.  Featherstone’s oatmeal cookies turn out delicious, despite how shitty his little cubicle looks, but they’re not enough to save him from elimination. 

Abigail is made star baker for the second week in a row, thanks to her gingerbread Netherfield Ball starring a sugar cookie Mr. Darcy. She kisses Silver's cheek, giving him a tight hug in thanks, and the soft, proud smile on Silver's face has no effect whatsoever on Flint's feelings. 

Really.

Flint almost wishes Silver’s pirate ship hadn’t tasted as good as it had, if only to have an excuse to send him home and get him and his fucking crop top off his mind.

 


	3. Week Three: Pies and Tarts

The requirements for the first bake of pie week is rather general: one batch of twelve fruit tarts, and another batch of their choice. 

Silver’s the only one using strawberries, which is a small mercy, but there are at least three people making some variation on a tarte au citron (he’s fairly certain Abigail will win the battle of the citrons, mostly because he can’t imagine Gates or Billy really have the sort of delicate touch needed).

“A curry flavored Cornish pasty is an unusual choice,” Max says when she and Flint make their usual rounds, accompanied by an-ever witty Jack.

Silver shrugs. “I have a lot of practice with them.”

“And why’s that?” Jack asks, leaning over the counter. 

“I… eat a lot of curry?”

Jack wilts, disappointed at Silver’s impersonal answer, and the trio moves on to Idelle’s workstation to discuss her bite-sized Bakewell tarts and sausage rolls.

Anne sidles up beside him as he’s folding butter into his puff pastry. “How come you never have any stories?”

“Pardon?” Silver pretends to be incredibly focused on measuring his dough. 

“Sausage rolls are Idelle’s husband’s favorite, so she makes sausage rolls. The first tart Joji ever tried when he came to London was pistachio flavoured. And you….just like curry puffs.”

Silver sighs, grabbing some cumin to toss into his filling. “It’s not that I don’t have any baking stories, it’s just that they’re not very fun.”

“How’s that?”

He fiddles with the temperature of the hob as he puts on a falsely chipper voice. “‘Oh, hi Max. Why these pasties? Well, they were my fiance’s favorite before she broke things off - for completely valid reasons, mind you.’’’ He gives Anne a rueful smile. “Not great television.”

“Why’d she dump you?” 

Anne, Silver has discovered, is a very peculiar, awfully blunt kind of host. He thinks her method is to just startle people into talking to her.

“Well,” The timer goes off, and he ducks down to pull his tarts out of the oven. It’s not like they’ll air this bit, anyway, he reasons. “she’s a successful, well-respected human rights lawyer. And  _ I’m...”  _

He straightens up, gesturing to his general - well, everything: the long hair (up in a bun to keep cool); the worn jeans; the tattoos; the earrings.

“...not the ideal househusband. Oversimplified, but there it is. We’re still close, though, so I suppose that’s something.”

Madi had wanted to save the world; Silver had just wanted her. He’s always been a rather selfish person, and Madi is perhaps the least selfish person he’s ever met. It never would have worked between them, but god, how he’d loved her. How he  _ loves _ her, really.

Anne sticks her finger in his bowl of freshly-made strawberry custard, licking it clean. “With baking like this, we’ll make you a househusband. A trophy one.”

_ “Stop eating my custard!” _

 

*****

  
  


Flint is genuinely surprised when Silver comes last in the technical: for all that he’s a shit, up until this point he hadn’t had a bad bake. So Flint is a bit taken aback when the set of raw pork pies turns out to be Silver’s.

“I’ve never cooked pork in my life,” Silver replies with a sheepish shrug when Flint names him ninth, and that gives both he and Max pause.

“If you’d had religious exceptions to this challenge, you should have said something,” Max responds, no doubt remembering that Silver had said he was Jewish in the first week. They always have a backup challenge, just in case.

Again, Silver shrugs. “I don’t keep kosher. I wasn’t offended, I just did a bad job of it.”

Flint goes from feeling guilty over perhaps unintentionally sabotaging a contestant to baffled frustration over Silver’s blasé attitude within seconds. For all that Silver gets caught up in everyone’s frantic energy during the final moments of each challenge, he just doesn’t seem to  _ care _ .

Flint’s frustration only mounts as, during the showstopper challenge, Silver doesn’t seem concerned at all about going home.

“If I go, I go,” Silver says, rolling out his pie crust - just a generic recipe, found from the fucking internet, no doubt. “No use worrying over it.”

“Do you care at all?” Flint snaps before he can check himself, and Silver looks up at him, startled.

“I - of course I - it’s just - ”

“I’m sure John cares very much about his place in the competition. He’s simply prioritizing, yes?” Max interjects smoothly, shooting Flint a slightly bewildered stare. “Well, best of luck.”

Flint’s still tense as they talk to Idelle about her trio of fruit pies, but he manages not to say anything too biting or rude to her or any of the other contestants that follow. 

He is perhaps a little harsh during judging, but not so much that it’s odd: he has a reputation for being a stick in the mud, after all. Besides, Joshua’s  _ three _ soggy bottoms truly do warrant a bit of a scolding.

Silver’s blueberry, raspberry, and blackberry pies are, much to Flint’s vexation, delicious. They’re certainly enough to save him from elimination. Still, he has to say  _ something _ .

“You know what the problem is with your baking?” Flint asks, and Silver frowns, fidgeting with the ring on his fingers. If Flint didn't know better, he'd think he was nervous. “None of your bakes have any personality. They taste good, sure, but there’s nothing that makes them special, makes them  _ yours _ . You don’t put yourself in your baking; you don’t put your heart in it.”

Flint almost regrets saying this, when he sees the wounded look in Silver’s eyes at his words. He hadn’t thought Silver would be so affected by his words. In all honesty, he hadn’t thought Silver would be affected at all.

“Perhaps what Flint is trying to say,” Max says gently, “Is that your baking is impersonal.”

Silver nods, still visibly hurt, and takes his pies back to his station. 

Max takes off her mic for a moment, shooing the boom operator away so she can speak to Flint without fear of being overheard.

“Sometimes, James Flint, you are an unbelievable ass.”

 

*****

 

While the judges deliberate, the crew takes the bakers aside, usually two at a time, to be interviewed about the day’s events. Silver is absolutely dreading his turn; the last thing he wants to do is talk about what Flint had said. Still, his time comes, and he and Joshua are led out of the tent to ‘have a little chat.’

They're probably asking Joshua about his chances of being eliminated. Silver, on the other hand, has to talk about Flint.

“Is it your impersonal baking that’s made your relationship with Flint so tense?” De Groot, one of the production managers, prompts him. 

Silver sighs, scrubbing his hands over his face. “I - I don’t know how to change his mind about that. I mean... _ I _ don’t think my baking is….”

“Flint said you don’t put your heart into it. He doesn’t like that.”

“I’m sorry, am I supposed to sing to my bakes? Cry into the batter so Flint will know how I  _ feel _ about them?” Silver retorts, defensive. “Look it’s easy for other people. ‘Oh, my great grandfather handed this recipe down through the generations. ‘My mother taught me how to make this cake.’ Well what about the people who didn’t have great-anythings? Or mothers, for that matter? What about the people who only started baking because - ”

He cuts himself off. It’s nobody’s business, why he started baking. 

Silver sighs, crossing his arms over his chest and looking out over the sunny field the tent is pitched in.

He doesn’t want to go home. He hadn’t realized just how badly he wants to stay until his position was in jeopardy. He loves it here, loves the people he’s met, loves the challenges and - he just can’t disappoint Madi. He can’t.

He  _ does _ care. Fuck Flint for assuming otherwise. Still…

Silver glances back at De Groot, feeling suddenly very small and very silly. “Do you really think he doesn’t like me?”

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on tumblr @slverjohn :)


End file.
